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For anyone curious about my new novel, The Artemis Adventure, I’m attaching a draft from the first galley sent back to me by the publisher, Outskirts Press. There may be a small change or two from this galley to the finished book, but the essence of the story is here. This may give you some understanding of the book, my writing style, and hopefully entice you to want to read it.

Thanks for your interest!

1

Kiki’s Star

As Kiki lay on the warm rooftop and gazed skyward at the stars, she made up her mind. She was definitely leaving.

Her mama and papa were screaming at each other in the apartment two floors below. This ongoing marital battle erupted in semi-weekly yelling bouts, and Kiki needed to escape the uproar. She had learned that the best way to keep her own sense of balance was to come up the stairway to the roof, spread an old blanket, and lie down on her back. If she was lucky—and it was a clear night with minimal smog—she could see the moon and stars overhead.

Kiki was not an expert on astronomy. Although she didn’t know the official names for the star constellations, she loved looking up at the night sky. At first, her favorite star had been the really big, bright one that she could always spot even when she found it in a slightly different place. After she had spent months just lying still and focusing on its bright light—while lost in her own teenage fantasy world—she noticed a smaller star just down and to the right of the big one. This one seemed to blink at times. The star would disappear and then come back. Kiki decided, with a touch of amusement, that maybe this star was communicating with her.

Someone from Kiki’s high school had read a book about mythology and told her about a Greek goddess named Artemis. An archer who wandered through the forest in search of adventures, accompanied by her faithful dog, Artemis was strong and independent—kind of an outsider who acted on her own. Although Kiki had never seen a real bow and arrow in the South Bronx, and a dog would be a luxury in her family, she liked the idea of Artemis’s free spirit and named her blinking star after the goddess.

*****

Kiki had slipped away to the rooftop during the past several months, weather permitting, to have some privacy to think about her life. The Rodriguez apartment was crowded and cluttered, with six people sharing it—her three brothers as well as Kiki and their parents. At the moment there were only five, because her oldest brother Raul was serving time in prison. Besides that, Javier was seldom home, since he hung out with his gang, and Kiki feared that he would eventually end up dead or in prison as well.

A product of the American melting pot, Kiki bore the name Patricia Loretta Cristina Rodriguez. She felt like a Heinz-57 mutt, with her mostly Polish mother and her Puerto Rican-Filipino father. She was third among the family’s four children. Only Gusto was younger. With difficult and often-absent older brothers and an alcoholic father, Kiki had been forced to take care of herself at an early age. Her gut feeling was that lack of money and a chaotic upbringing—not to mention being a female—would make adult life very challenging.

Just turned eighteen, Kiki was five feet, two inches tall with an athletic build. She had large brown eyes that sparkled, wavy dark hair that fell to her shoulders—when not pulled into a ponytail—and an olive complexion. She was pretty, with full lips and two dimples that showed when she smiled. Kiki felt self-conscious about her nose, which seemed, to her, a bit too pug for her face, and she had a slight scar over one eye—a scar she had acquired when she hadn’t ducked soon enough as two brothers sparred with each other during a family fight.

Kiki had just finished her junior year in high school. One more year, she thought to herself, and you can start college and get out of this depressing world.

Kiki heaved a deep sigh. Yeah, what a dream. What chance did she have to go to college, really? She had worked for an elderly Jewish baker until he had a stroke and his store was closed. Now she couldn’t find another job, and the little savings fund she had spirited away for school kept shrinking instead of growing. No matter how creative she was in hiding her stash, Javier was smarter. When he needed drug money, he turned her room upside down until he found cash or something else he could sell. Kiki would scream at him and pound his shoulders with her fists, but he would just shrug her off, take her money, and nothing would change.

It seemed to Kiki that Mama and Papa’s fights were becoming worse, and with the sweltering days of summer upon them, they would be at it almost every night. Kiki was sure there was nowhere in the world more hot and humid than a South Bronx apartment in August.

She lay on the steamy roof and watched Artemis blinking at her and knew that it was time to do something. Scary as the thought was, it was time for her to leave. Out in the world, under those stars, there had to be someplace better than this. If she didn’t go now, she might never escape her family’s cycle of poverty and crime.

*****

A door closed quietly nearby, and a familiar form dropped down beside her.

The two teenage girls lay quietly for a moment, each watching the night sky. They had been best friends since grade school. They knew each other so well that they hardly needed words to read each other’s thoughts.

“Artemis is bright tonight,” Kiki finally commented, pointing her finger at the twinkling star low on the horizon.

“Oh, Kiki, I wish. But I got school and Ramon. I couldn’t run out on Ramon. I mean, he’s beginnin’ to talk marriage, an’ I—“

Kiki reached for Manuela’s bronze-skinned hand. “I know, Manuela. I just had to ask. You’re my best and dearest friend.”

The two girls continued to hold hands as they lay and looked upward, each one lost in thought. Kiki felt the soft warmth of Manuela’s larger paw. She would miss the reassurance of that hand.

*****

Aware that it was really late, Kiki stood up and pulled Manuela to her feet. The other girl towered over Kiki. They embraced for a long moment.

“I’ll miss you, Kiki,” Manuela whispered, as a tear slid down her cheek.

“Me, too. I’ll write when I can, okay?”

“Okay.”

Kiki opened the heavy metal door that led to the roof, and they walked carefully and quietly together down the dark, graffiti-scarred stairway to apartment 3A. They held each other once again briefly, and then—when Manuela had disappeared after waving a final goodbye—Kiki entered the dark and now blissfully silent apartment. Her papa had passed out drunk on the couch, and her mama had gone to bed. Kiki sighed with relief. Tonight might be easier than some.

Stepping inside her tiny bedroom, Kiki shut the door. Closing it made her personal space—which barely held a twin bed, dresser, and a small desk—even more sweltering than usual, but she needed privacy. She stretched out on her bed as the hint of a breeze puffed at the yellowed curtains hanging at her open window. Staring in nighttime dimness at the peeling paint on the ceiling, she attempted to make a plan. She would sleep, as much as she could, and then split in the morning. She’d take her money and her duffle bag and leave everything else, what there was of it. Thinking about Manuela—and being glad that her friend had stopped by so that one person knew she was about to leave yet wouldn’t tell—Kiki finally drifted off to sleep.

She awoke suddenly when the first hint of morning light crept through the cracked windowpanes. Rolling out of bed, Kiki hurriedly showered, and dressed. Then she began to pack. Pulling her PE duffle bag out of the closet, she tossed in her personal bathroom supplies. She added two changes of underwear, a couple of T-shirts, socks, a pair of shorts and some long pants, and a fleece hoodie. She laid a jacket on the bed. It was worn but made of soft black leather—something Javier had won in a gang squabble and then given to her because it was too small for him. Her heavy hiking boots sat on the floor; she would exchange her slippers for them when she was ready to leave.

Kiki threw the bag back into her closet and strolled out to the kitchen, acting as normally as she could manage. Mama was silent, nursing a black eye, and there was an air of tension about her from last night’s battle. She was fixing her usual breakfast of hash browns, which Mama made fresh and called “rosti,” along with beans, rice and tortillas for Papa.

Clearly hung over, Papa was smoking a cigarette and trying to absorb the morning paper. Javier apparently hadn’t come home again last night, because at the table there was just Gusto, who was barely fifteen.

Kiki pushed down anxiety as she seated herself and quietly studied everyone. She wanted to press their images into her memory, because she had no idea when she would see any of them again. There were things that maybe she should say, but words might create an alarm, and she didn’t want that, so she swallowed hard and kept silent.

Mama put the food on the table and commanded as usual, “Here, eat.”

Papa grunted and awkwardly juggled his newspaper, cigarette and fork. His eyes were fogged and watery.

Kiki sighed. Maybe slender, handsome Gusto, who dug into his beans and rice with a vengeance, still had possibilities. She hoped so, because he was a nice kid, yet she really wondered. She looked down at her plate of food but her stomach was tied in knots. Although she would need a good meal in her for the road, her mouth felt like cotton.

Mama turned from the stove, stared at Kiki and grunted. “Patricia Loretta Cristina Rodriquez, you eat! I’m not wastin’ good food.” She waved a finger menacingly in Kiki’s direction.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Kiki struggled to swallow a bite of hash browns.

Mama pointed at Javier’s empty chair. “Where’s Javier?”

Gusto looked up. “He ain’t home.”

Mama swore under her breath. “He’ll end up like his brother, rottin’ in a jail somewhere, if he don’t get knifed or shot first.”

There was silence, as they all tried to clean their plates. No one wanted to anger Mama and start another fight.

Finally, Kiki pushed away her chair. “Well, I’m gonna look for a job again today. So I better get going.”

Mama looked at her directly. Her eyes softened and a little smile crossed her face. “Good luck, baby.”

Kiki melted and rushed to be embraced in her mother’s fleshy arms. “I love you, Mama,” she said with tears in the corners of her eyes. Silently to herself, she admitted, “I’ll miss you, Mama.”

Kiki backed away from the tension and fled to her room, where she waited breathlessly. A few moments later, she heard her papa stand up and, with a heavy step, bang out the front door headed for work. Soon after that, Gusto followed on his way to summer school, and her mama soon left for her job in the meat market down the street. After the door shut for the last time, the apartment was quiet.

Huddled for a moment on her bed, feeling overwhelmed, Kiki struggled to pull herself together and remember her goal for the day. She had to get far enough away that they couldn’t come after her. She was of age, and she had the right to leave, but that wouldn’t stop her papa, or Javier, from coming to find her and forcing her to return home.

“You’d think they would be glad to see the last of me, since I’m just another mouth to feed,” she muttered aloud. “But, no, I’m part of the glue that holds this family together, so they want me here.” She sighed. It was time to live for herself, if she was ever going to have a life.

Kiki looked around the room at her favorite dolls, movie posters, and high school souvenirs that she might never see again. As she surveyed her life history, she thought of two other things she must take: her beat-up camera and a book of souvenir matches from the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. She might need matches for something, and the matchbook recalled one memory of something beautiful in New York.

Kiki wrote a vague note to her family—which they would find later in the day—saying she loved them and would be in touch. Then she emptied all her secret hiding places of her remaining savings, along with a Greyhound ticket from Newark to Pittsburgh that she had purchased in advance. She had figured out that non-express, slower buses were cheaper, so she had paid for the first leg of her trip. She sighed as she looked at her small roll of money and the ticket. This wasn’t much to get her to California.

*****

Kiki left the building, shouldering her duffle bag and jacket. Her pockets and boots were lined with cash. A slim wallet with her only identification was stuffed in a jeans pocket.

With her entire body a bundle of nerves, Kiki walked hesitantly to the nearest subway station. Going underground, she paid her fare to Penn Station. From there she would switch to a New Jersey line that would take her to Newark within an hour. She figured it was the quickest way out of New York. Once in Jersey, she could board the Greyhound headed west.

At a Penn Station kiosk, Kiki bought a bottle of water and a U.S. map. She felt dumb not to have thought of this before and picked up a map for nothing or next to nothing somewhere in the neighborhood, but it was too late now. Although Kiki trusted that the Greyhound would eventually get her to San Francisco, she was used to being in charge and wanted to have some idea where she was headed. Logically, she knew enough to keep the morning sun at her back when going west. Yet once the New York skyline was out of view, she would need more than Artemis to guide her—after all, her star was only visible at night, and then only on clear nights at that.

Kiki studied the map while she rode the subway, her stomach aching as each mile took her farther and farther away from the South Bronx, her family, and the only world she had ever known. Looking at the map kept her from staring too much at the strangers around her, but she soon noticed they, too, were focused on books, newspapers, cell phones, and not each other.

At one stop, two women got on the subway together, giggling. Then they threw their arms around each other and kissed. Noticing them out of the corner of her eye, Kiki blushed and buried herself more deeply in her map. Then she found herself—she didn’t know why—glancing at them as they stood arm in arm talking and laughing as the train hurled itself with jerking motions through the underground tunnel.

When she reached her New Jersey stop and left the subway station, Kiki surveyed the buildings around her and recognized how different everything looked and that she was standing on totally strange turf. Her heart began to pound in her ears. Calm down, she told herself. It was too late to be sorry that she had started this big adventure, but she was now feeling very unsettled. She had heard people were nicer and more helpful out West. Yet before she would reach California, she had days and nights to endure on a bus. Feeling waves of fear pass through her body, Kiki suddenly realized that despite her macho tomboy exterior, inside she was really a kitten. And right now a scared one at that.

Copyright 2018 by Dorothy Rice Bennett. Published October 7, 2017, by Outskirts Press. Available at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble online, and Outskirts Press. Quality paperback, 315 pages, $17.95. Available locally in Sequim, Washington, through the author.

By Dorothy Rice Bennett

The Olympic Peninsula is largely made up of parklands—beginning with the magnificent Olympic National Park, which—along with the US Forest Service lands—makes up the bulk of the Peninsula. In addition, there are several smaller state and county parks, including the rustic yet lovely Sequim Bay State Park, which is less than five miles from my home.

Because the entrance is right on Highway 101, it is easy to zip by Sequim Bay State Park without a second thought. I’ve done that hundreds of times. I’ve been in the park maybe twice since I moved to Sequim in 2010. My loss, unfortunately.

Recently, when returning from a day trip to Silverdale and with my two toy poodles in the car, I slowed down in time, pulled off the highway and entered the park. The dogs became excited, as well they should. Wonderful smells awaited them.

Sequim Bay State Park is heavily wooded. In the dampness of fall, the heavy growth has a feel similar to that of a rainforest. Because there are both deciduous and evergreen trees, park pathways this time of year are covered with yellow and orange leaves. While traffic from the highway can still be heard, the forest changes the sound, passing it around like an echo and yet lessening the volume and intensity. The beauty of the tall trees leads one to quickly forget about the highway and just look around, take a deep breath, and enjoy.

Olympic Discovery Trail

Running essentially east and west, the Olympic Discovery Trail dissects the park. A recently added wooden bridge spans a streambed many feet below the trail within the park. The Discovery Trail, when completed, will run from Port Townsend across the Peninsula to Forks and the Pacific Ocean. The section that cuts through our state park is open all the way through Sequim and on to Port Angeles. The asphalt-covered trail supports walkers, hikers, cyclists, strollers, wheelchairs, dogs on leashes, and anything that moves but doesn’t have an engine, so no motorcycles or autos.

Facilities

Sequim Bay State Park does not look large from the entrance, but its ninety-two acres are filled with amenities. The park has sixty tent spaces that can accommodate RVs to thirty feet and sixteen utility spaces that can hold RVs to forty-five feet, There are three restrooms (one ADA) and three showers (two ADA). There are two loops of forested, dry, camping sites, some very near the water. (Some hookup sites were recently removed to make the remaining sites more spacious.) There are covered shelters, one with electricity, along with covered and uncovered picnic tables. There are benches and trails. A lighted underpass beneath the highway leads to ball fields and tennis courts on the south side of the 101. In the main park, I found swings and horseshoe pits.

Group campers can reserve space at two wooded group camps within walking distance of the shoreline. Also available is Ramblewood Environmental Learning Center, a rustic retreat center with a commercial kitchen and sleeping space for sixty people.

The park looks out on Sequim Bay with beautiful views from two shoreline paths, one with a boat launch and the second with a boat dock. The long dock accommodates several boats at a time, and the park is popular with fishing craft during designated fishing seasons; offshore moorage is also available. The park has 4,099 feet of saltwater coast on Sequim Bay, but coastal erosion has unfortunately eliminated access to some of the park’s beachfront areas.

As with all Washington state parks, Sequim Bay State Park requires the annual Discover Pass, which costs $30 when purchased at any state park. Various local businesses also sell the pass, for $35 plus sales tax. In Sequim, check Walmart and Brian’s Sporting Goods. The park is open throughout the year, 8 a.m. until dusk.

Note: Washington State annually offers a “free pass” day when the Discover Pass is not required. This year’s free pass day is November 24, 2017. That’s Black Friday, for shoppers, the day after Thanksgiving. So if you’d like to avoid all the crowds in the stores, take a break and visit the state parks, including Sequim Bay.

How to find the park

Sequim Bay State Park is located at 269035 Highway 101, Sequim, WA 98382. The phone number is (360) 683-4235. Campsite and group accommodations can be reserved online or by phoning (888) 226-7688. Some campsites are closed during winter months.

To visit, from downtown Sequim, take the Highway 101 headed east. In less than five minutes, you’ll find the main entrance to Sequim Bay State Park on your left. There are signs along the highway to help you and a left turn lane to make the turn safer. Enjoy! I’ll see you there!

By Dorothy Rice Bennett

Several years ago, I edited a novel for a friend who had written three books and paid for them to be “self-published.” She coughed up $5,000 each time and received a shipment 1,000 books, of which she sold a few, and gave some away. The rest remained in her garage in boxes steadily growing musty.

Publishing a book is a hard gig in a world where fame and name are the game. If you aren’t Stephen King, Sue Grafton, Dan Brown, Jodi Picoult, or a few others, is it very hard to get the attention of big publishing houses. They want surefire hits. Given all the investment these firms have in printing and distributing books, it is very understandable. Yet what’s an aspiring author to do, besides, in most cases, collect rejection letters?

The new wave

The arrival of print-on-demand—along with online sales by giant corporations like Amazon and Barnes and Noble, and the creation of ebooks (Kindle, Nook, iBooks, etc)—has made it possible for us “little people” to enter the publishing game.

For a relatively small amount of money, any of us can now publish a book and find information about how to market that book.

Having just finished my third novel, I have a few experiences to share. I haven’t felt ready to just jump into the Amazon CreateSpace self-publishing model, where you read a few brief guidebooks and then do it totally by yourself. Instead, I chose to approach a publishing company, Outskirts Press in Colorado, that had been courting me online for four years. I figured they wanted my business.

My model meant that I had a support team guiding me through each step of the process, and that gave me confidence to move ahead. It cost me more than CreateSpace (I’ve had friends tell me they published for $10) but much less than my friend with the pile of books in her garage. I paid for the preparation of the book and the distribution to Ingram (warehouses servicing book stores) and to Amazon and Barnes and Noble for online sales. I received ten free copies of my book and now I buy copies as I have a need for them, following sales, or in preparation for book readings. I pay wholesale, sell at retail, and make a little profit off of each book—and get some return on my initial investment. Over time, it adds up.

Eliminating errors

One of the complaints about self-publishing is a lack of editing expertise, the result of which many small errors remain in a printed book—errors that most likely would have been caught with professional editing.

I fully understand this issue. For my latest novel, THE ARTEMIS ADVENTURE, I had a skilled and dedicated editor, and between us we eliminated a large number of errors before I submitted my book to Outskirts Press. When the first galley came back, and I saw the font and the appearance of the soon-to-be printed book, I was amazed at the number of mistakes that were still in the book. I had read it many times, including aloud more than once, and I thought I had done a good job. However, I found 95 fixes, and my editor found a lot more—268 between us. We required three more rounds of galleys before I felt

First galley errors

safe to give the go ahead for printing. And I doubt that it is perfect, even now.

Some mistakes result from the mind knowing what it needs to do and the fingers on the keyboard not doing it just right. In a 100,000-word book, there are at least 500,000 characters, spaces, and punctuation marks—many opportunities for error. A total of 268 mistakes is not a very high percentage, but it certainly is not the level of perfection that I, or any author, would hope to achieve. So round and round we go, cleaning up our little messes. When I get tired of a process that seems to have no end and takes up long hours for days and weeks, it is easy to sigh and say, “It’s good enough.”

Is self-publishing worth it?

If you don’t suffer from writer’s block, writing a novel can be lots of fun. You set the stage, pick your locale, name your lead character(s), add your supporting cast, and start in. As Snoopy wrote, “On a dark and stormy night…”

Finished book, page 1

Your characters take on lives of their own and communicate with you—sometimes at four in the morning—about what they want to achieve, what they need, what barriers are in their way. You work on those issues, and eventually, you write “The End.”

Rewriting and editing are a lot harder. The process may be a lot easier with the Internet, because research is faster when you don’t have to leave your own desk to find out historical facts, geographic realities, bus, plane, and train schedules, proper names, correct spelling, etc., etc., etc.

My editor, Teri Johnson, put me through the hoops over word choice. She noticed that I had a tendency to use the word “but” and the word “get” entirely too often. I had to agree when I discovered more than 600 “buts” in the manuscript; I reduced those to less than 200. For the “gets,” I looked up more colorful words. And that is only the beginning.

The publishing process takes approximately three months. There are some breaks between galleys, but mostly I as writer remain on pins and needs for the entire process. Even with a good publishing company, things go wrong and have to be corrected. When you finally hold the book in your hands, you heave a sigh. Your guts settle down a little, and you can sleep again.

Marketing

For a self-published author, marketing seems to me the highest mountain to climb. There is no replacement for experience. With each book, you gain skills at handling online social media, doing book readings, talking with bookstore owners, and submitting publicity to friends, the community, and the world at large. It is a never-ending job, and you have to do most of it yourself.

And somewhere in all of that, you have to find the time, the heart, and the will to begin writing a new book.

Would I undo the past three years and the past three books? No. Am I ready to quit? No. Do I have another book in my head. Yes. And if you want to be an independent author, with some hard work you can do it as well!

Okay, let’s begin!

THE ARTEMIS ADVENTURE is available in quality paperback online at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Outskirts Press. 315 pages, $17.95. Outskirts offers the book at a discount and has an ebook as well. A Kindle version is in the works for early next year. Sequim area residents may obtain autographed copies from the author; for more information, send an email message to dorothyricebennett@yahoo.com

A youthful would-be writer is filled with great dreams and ambitions—like writing the great American novel, selling a screenplay, being published and making a fortune. Yet, as we all learn eventually, our teenage view of ourselves and the world can be wacky, off center, and incredibly naïve. I know my adolescence was all of the above.

Speedway, Indiana, could be exciting every May when the Indy 500 mayhem came to town. But the rest of the year Speedway was just a small town. My world comprised two blocks by two blocks. Everything of any importance in my daily life was within walking distance of my house, from school, to church, to the grocery, the drugstore, the bank, and the movie theater.

Let’s pause at the movie theater around the corner. It’s where I hung out, because my parents were both employed full time and running their own business. I was an only child. With no one at home to talk with, I went to the movies. Of course, when you go to the movies a lot, you tend to become involved with movies and movie stars. One thing leads to another.

Esther’s biggest fan

Just before I turned eleven, in February of 1953, I saw a movie at that theater that was going to change my life: Million Dollar Mermaid starring Esther Williams. I loved the film and skipped and sang the movie’s theme song, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” all the way home. It was a musical biopic about Australian Annette Kellerman, who like Esther Williams, swam her way to stardom in motion pictures in the early twentieth century. It was a real American tale in which childhood polio and poverty were overcome as Annette achieved success as a swimmer. Perfect story for a child who needed a heroine, a child who wanted a bigger world than the one in which she lived.

Now I hung around the corner drug store reading movie magazines, buying ones that had articles about Esther, joining an Esther Williams Fan Club in Florida, then deciding that if a man in Florida could have a fan club for Esther Williams, why couldn’t I? So I asked, and on June 4, 1955, I received a letter from Esther allowing me to become president of the International Esther Williams Fan Club. Now I could write something besides short stories for my classmates. I could create fan club journals for my members and mail them to far away places, like England, Australia, and Trinidad in the Caribbean.

So I did. I bought a used AB Dick mimeograph and learned to type (thirty words a minute with one finger and a thumb), made stencils, and published in my basement “office” my own fan club journals, thirty pages long with pictures of Esther and my various guest stars, including Mitzi Gaynor, whom I later had the chance to meet. I then assembled and mailed the journals to my 150 members. It was a fun hobby, and I gradually learned that many adults did the same thing—some of them weren’t so happy when at fifteen I accepted an award for most active fan club of 1957 in New York City, from a fan club organization. At the awards dinner, I met actor Robert Evans and Hollywood columnist Rona Barrett, both early in their respective careers, and also one of my club members, Nancy Schiffmacher, from East Hempstead, Long Island, New York.

Going to college?

Having a fan club and hanging around a movie theater ultimately brought new opportunities into my world. The theatre owner met me, wrote to Hollywood on my behalf, arranged an Esther Williams double feature at our neighborhood theater, which was filled to capacity that night, and she introduced me to the crowd and gave me a personally autographed photo from Esther herself. The owner, Eva Mae Sconce, also decided, after she knew me a while, that I needed a change; she encouraged me to apply to college, under a program featured in Reader’s Digest about several US colleges that accepted high school sophomores and juniors as early admission students. Mrs. Sconce thought I belonged somewhere else other than Speedway.

While awaiting this college dream to be fulfilled (in 1959 when I was seventeen), I took high school journalism classes and worked as a part time stringer for The Indianapolis News by sending in stories about school events (and being paid by the column inch). I used my mimeograph machine not only for two fan clubs I ran (Esther’s and a one for a young actor, John Wilder), but also placed an ad in the local newspaper and received several small printing jobs from Speedway citizens. (My first entrepreneurial adventure—beyond parking cars for the Indy races). To design covers and provide artwork, I needed a light box, but I didn’t have the money to buy one. I took a cardboard box, a piece of glass, a light bulb socket, light bulb, and an extension cord, and made my own light box for just pennies. And it worked perfectly well for my projects.

Mrs. Sconce encouraged my writing. She suggested I write a book about my involvement with Esther Williams, whom I finally met in April of 1958, when the MGM star visited Indianapolis for the annual home show and dedicated a new swimming pool from her pool company in New York. I was allowed to spend two days touring Indianapolis with Esther and learned a lot about her. Of course, being fifteen, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Among the activities that happened during those two days was an interview with Esther for high school journalists that I hosted in a downtown hotel. Some nice stories in local school papers came out of that interview. Despite the fun and excitement, I felt I didn’t know enough, or have the perspective, to write an adult piece about my relationship with Esther. I turned out a few pages and quit. Not me, not yet, anyway.

First novella

I also wrote my first novel (a novella, actually), Anna Be Accepted. Not much more than fifty pages long, it was the story of an impoverished teenage girl who meets a nice boy from the better side of town—and from a family that wants nothing to do with her until she saves the youngest son from drowning. It was a simple and positive story about being good, doing your best, forgiving people who are not nice to you, and ultimately coming out a winner. I printed the story on my mimeograph, assembled it, and sold copies to friends and family for fifty cents.

As an avid reader—at times during my childhood I read seven books a week—I knew that I was young and very naïve. I could tell stories and put words together, but I sensed that there was so much I didn’t know—I realized there was little depth to my writing. So when I was encouraged to write, I loved the idea of being an author, and I tried to put ideas down on paper, but soon I filed my dreams away for the future somewhere. Someday, after college and when I had really lived and had something meaningful to say.

One of my favorite summer-time day trips from Sequim, Washington, leads to Deception Pass, a tricky stretch of water that separates Whidbey and Fidalgo Islands in the Puget Sound. From Sequim getting there requires a two-hour drive (plus a thirty-minute ferry ride from Port Townsend on the Olympic Peninsula to Coopeville on Whidbey Island).

Deception Pass is important for many reasons—among them, spectacular beauty, photo opportunities, fascinating history, and a variety of fun activities. Take along a picnic basket, camera, casual clothes, and sturdy footwear.

History

Fidalgo and Whidbey islands have been home to Native Americans for more than ten- thousand years. The most recognized names today are the Samish and the Swinomish tribes. A Swinomish Reservation was established in 1873 and today the Swinomish operate a popular casino and hotel east of Anacortes, the largest coastal city on Fidalgo Island. The Samish were officially recognized as a tribe in 1996; their art can be seen at Rosario Beach on southwest Fidalgo Island.

First exploration of the area occurred in the 1790s. Spanish explorer Juan Carrasco discovered the entrances to what is now Deception Pass in 1790; Master Joseph Whidbey of the English-sponsored Vancouver Expedition found and mapped Deception Pass and Whidbey Island in 1792. Vancouver named the waterway “Deception Pass” because his sailors were deceived by it, thinking that Whidbey Island was part of a peninsula. The waters are known to be treacherous to sailors; hence the name still applies to this day.

Trappers and hunters arrived in the area from the 1790s to the 1870s. Pioneer settlers began appearing in the 1850s and groups, including several women, settled permanently by the 1870s. These pioneers came from a variety of backgrounds but largely turned into farmers on the islands. They raised cattle and harvested fruit, cabbage, cauliflower seeds, and hops.

Modern Background

Early in the twentieth century, travelers crossed between Whidbey and Fidalgo Islands via a five-minute ferry ride—available hourly and subject to storms and breakdowns. Operated by a married couple, O.A. and Berte H. Olson (the first woman to hold a ferry captain’s license in Washington), the sixty-eight feet long and twenth-four feet wide ferry charged fifty cents per crossing and ten cents extra for additional passengers. The Deception Pass Ferry, built specially by the Olsons, operated from 1922 until 1935, when the twin bridges were completed and connected to the small Pass Island from the north and south. The picturesque bridges are now listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Photographers love the fact that these bridges are equipped with pedestrian walking paths, but if you have a touch of vertigo, the vibrations of automobiles just inches away and the rushing waters below could prove a challenge!

Southern Fidalgo Island and Northern Whidbey Island are largely wilderness. Deception Pass State Park takes up much of the land on both sides of the pass, and Rialto Beach is a major attraction on the northwest side of the pass. On a day trip from Sequim, there is plenty of time to explore both sides of the pass and hang out along the bridges. Pathways for the sure of foot visitors lead to magnificent views of the water, land, and bridges.

Park and beach views and activities

Deception Pass State Park was created in 1922 when sixteen-hundred acres of military reservation was transferred to Washington State Parks; it became official the following year and was developed by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s. In addition to and on both Whidbey and Fidalgo Islands, the park includes ten smaller islands that are in and around Deception Pass. Among the most visited parks in Washington, Deception Pass sees more than two million visitors each year. The Pacific Northwest Trail passes through the park; hikers must brave the pedestrian paths across both bridges. Entrance to the park is at Highway 20 and Cornet Bay Rd on Whidbey Island. Beaches on the west side offer great photo ops of the bridges.

Rosario Beach is located on Fidalgo Island, at the western edge of Deception Pass State Park; it contains sandy beaches, a peaceful place for picnicking, tide pools to explore, and photo ops including The Maiden of Deception Pass story pole, based on Samish legend. Rosario Beach largely faces the Strait of Juan De Fuca and nearby islands, but trails toward Bowman Bay allow vistas of Whidbey Island and Deception Pass. Ancient trees provide bald eagle perches, and the waters close to the beach and tide pools offer amazing examples of sea life at low tides. Whales and porpoises have been seen in the waters to the west.

Boating in the pass

Deception Pass earns its name over and over for any boater, kayaker, diver, or scuba diver that braves the waters of the passage. During ebb and flood tides, currents can flow at nearly ten miles per hour, in opposite directions between ebb and flood. These currents can lead to standing waves, whirlpools, and roiling eddies. Not a place for the inexperienced to venture. This wave action can be viewed from the pedestrian walkways on the bridges and along a path leading from the parking area on Whidbey Island south of the bridge. Boats attempting passage can be seen at each end waiting for the tides to change or turn before going through. From Sequim, there is an opportunity to transit the pass with an experienced licensed captain, Charles Martin, who keeps his tour boat at the John Wayne Marina and offers a Deception Pass tour through the Shipley Center in Sequim.

Getting there from Sequim

To spend the day on Whidbey Island and explore Deception Pass, Deception Pass State Park, and Rosario Beach, begin by taking Highway 101 east to Highway 20. Turn left onto that highway and drive to Port Townsend, about a forty-five minute trip from Sequim. Make a reservation ahead for the Port Townsend-Coopeville Ferry, a thirty-minute ride to Whidbey Island. Follow Highway 20 north to Deception Pass and its park and beaches. Including ferry wait and ride, allow three hours for the total trip each way. Doable on a long summer day and worth the effort. In August and early September, remember the sunscreen and plenty of water!

In the fall of 1993, I attended my thirtieth college reunion. Thirty years is about right to begin to be a little nostalgic, so I had a great time visiting my campus, meeting with classmates, and reawakening some great memories about my college days.

The following summer, I had a sudden idea for a novel. My ideas for novels tend to come to me all at once, in a flash. Then I just have to write them. (That being a lot harder than getting the flash in the first place) After my inspirational moment, I spent every spare hour after work during the next three weeks typing out the first draft of a novel about a teenage girl who wants a college education. I was excited, because I had attempted for years to write a novel and usually got stopped after four or five chapters and never finished one. This attempt had a beginning, middle, and an end, and I named it The Artemis Adventure.

Once the euphoria was over, I put the novel in a drawer and moved on with my life. Over the next few years, I worked on two other novels, which have now been published: NORTH COAST: A Contemporary Love Story and GIRLS ON THE RUN.

In the meantime, my late partner, Vera Foster, had told me that she liked the Artemis story better than anything else I had written. My present partner, Connie Jenkins, said pretty much the same thing. So I decided to resurrect that first novel and see what I could do with it. The process was a bit like exhuming a corpse, because the book was written in an obsolete format that I could no longer open on my computer. I had to take the one printed copy that existed, scan it page by page into PDFs, and then find someone to link the pages and convert the mish-mash into Word, so that I could finally open the document and work on it again.

Why Artemis?

The story of The Artemis Adventure focuses an eighteen year old girl who dreams of going to college. Kiki Rodriguez, product of the American melting pot, is Polish, Filipino, and Puerto Rican. To escape family arguments she has hidden out on the roof of her apartment building in the South Bronx and studied the stars, one of which she has called “Artemis” after the Greek goddess. Her conversations at night with Artemis provide her the inspiration to pursue her dreams. She leaves home, crosses the country via bus, trucker, and some Berkeley college students, and is dropped off accidentally at the front gate of a college in Oakland, California.

I have no idea at this point how Artemis came into my mind, but after doing some research I came to the conclusion that for this young girl, Artemis is perfect: she’s independent, she’s an archer, she goes off into the forest with a companion animal, either a hunting dog or a deer, she’s a virgin—meaning only that she never married nor bore children—yet she was a protector of women, children, and animals, and nature. Artemis went off the beaten path and sometimes broke the rules.

My resulting novel, thus Artemis influenced, is many things; a colorful story, sometimes funny, sometimes touching, about a girl growing into a woman during her college years and about fellow students, faculty, and administration of her school, and the world around her. It is also about issues—racial prejudice, gender equality, and homosexuality. It looks back at the past, where we’ve been, and at the future, where we are and are going. It is both real and fantasy. Kiki has to find out what she wants to do with her life and who she is at the same time.

Looking backward

When I was an undergraduate in college, 1959–1963, the concept of “gender equality” did not exist. I remember a visiting lecturer who told students gathered in the concert hall for assembly that the most important thing we could learn in college was to be “flexible and adaptable.” I turned to my roommate and whispered that if my father knew that, he would question whether he was getting his money’s worth. Yet 1959 was during the Eisenhower era. My college, created for women, had a father figure, male president. Women were homemakers, and college women were still girls—girls planning and dreaming about getting married and having children. Careers? Maybe, but only secondarily. Yes, it was still like finishing school.

And during that time, homosexuality was defined as a mental disorder, and those who “acted out” were put in jails and mental hospitals. Two seniors in my dormitory were caught doing something “inappropriate” and were expelled from college one semester from graduation. Several of our PE teachers were single and called “different” but no one suggested they were lesbian. Who ever heard of the word back then? Some of the faculty members were “spinsters” yet in their obituaries years later, long-time partners were mentioned.

By the 1970s, homosexuality was no longer officially considered a disease, and in the wake of the battles for civil rights and women’s rights, gay rights also came on the scene. Although those battles are not over, on many college campuses today, there is an air of openness and acceptance of gay and lesbian students and staff that certainly didn’t exist when I was in school. My own college now has a lesbian president, who is married to a woman and has five children.

Updating the file

The biggest challenge for me in bringing The Artemis Adventure from 1994 to 2017 was in updating details of the world that Kiki Rodriguez inhabits. Movies on DVDs were just appearing. Smart phones didn’t exist. Laptops were new and not seen everywhere. iPads and tablets were unknown. Today, nearly everyone has access to all of these devices. Introducing these everyday items into the novel made me very aware of how quickly our world is changing, in so many, many ways.

And in my novel, Kiki as an aspiring young woman is constantly in a state of growth and transition. One of my own favorite moments in the book is when Kiki, having been left behind in Goodland, Kansas, by her Greyhound bus driver, meets a woman trucker, Sally Anne Tucker, who with the companionship of a German shepherd, Aisha, travels the east-west routes of the United States in a pink eighteen-wheeler truck. Kiki immediately admires Sal, who makes her living in a man’s world—out on the road and alone with her dog. A little like Artemis, perhaps?

Now in the publication process, The Artemis Adventure will be available in quality paperback from Outskirts Press sometime in September. Stay tuned!

You ever want to have a picnic, but you don’t want to drive far? You don’t have a lot of gas in the tank? It’s warm and sunny, but you need a little shade? Like being near the water? Well, for residents of Sequim, Washington, all those things are available right around the corner. About a mile from our home on the east edge of Sequim sits the John Wayne Marina.

Now, a marina for a boater means one thing. For a picnicker, it means something else. And not all marinas are good for both. But we’re lucky. The John Wayne Marina was laid out as a marina but also a park. That means beautiful scenery, lovely shade trees, benches, tables, a stream running through it, a beach to walk on at low tide, and close parking. It means a built-in trail to exercise your pet. It also means a point of land beautifully laid out with plenty of shade and an open space to hold weddings and other ceremonies.

Named for ‘The Duke’

Actor John Wayne (yes, ‘The Duke’) once owned a private yacht that he used for family vacations, many of those vacations in or near the Pacific Northwest. His yacht, 136-feet long and named Wild Goose, was a converted US Navy Minesweeper built and launched in Seattle in 1942. Following the war,

Wild Goose Today, photo by Abhishake4

Wayne bought it from a Seattle businessman in 1965 and took his last trip on Wild Goose in 1979, two months before he died. Wild Goose currently resides in Southern California as the flagship for Hornblower Cruises & Events.

While traveling the Puget Sound and the Straits of Juan de Fuca, the Wayne family acquired acreage along the western shore of Sequim Bay. After the actor’s death, 22 acres were donated by the family specifically for the creation of the John Wayne Marina; the marina was constructed in 1985 and is owned and operated by the Port of Port Angeles. The remaining acres were turned by the family into an RV park and rental cabins across from the marina.

Today the John Wayne Marina remains a jewel of the Olympic Peninsula. Located on a lovely and quiet bay, protected by an attractive berm, the marina provides rental slips, guest docks, launch ramps, rest rooms, laundry facilities, and showers. There is also a restaurant, Dockside Grill, on site, banquet rooms, and the Sequim Bay Yacht Club. Rental kayaks and canoes are available at the guest docks, along with fuel supplies. The marina was featured in the June 2003 issue of SEA Magazine’s “Best of the West” for small marinas.

Meet and greet

For those of us who are not currently boat owners, the marina is a beautiful place to enjoy, to sit and contemplate the beauty of nature, to exercise our dogs, and to meet and greet nice folks who come here from just about everywhere. It’s a place where everyone smiles and says, “Hi.”

In the summertime, although temperatures on the Peninsula rarely rise much above 80 degrees, the sun can feel hot. Walking a dog without shade is difficult for human and furry pet. So, parks become important. They often have more shade then a typical recently-constructed neighborhood—since Sequim’s principal growth has been in recent years, many of our trees are young and small.

When I drive down to the marina, the dogs get excited as soon as they realize where we are going. They love the marina. Good smells there and lots of other dogs to meet. While my poodles are saying hello in their own way, we humans do too. And walking beneath the trees with a slight breeze is several degrees cooler than at home.

Always something going on

The marina is a busy place. In the summer, there are fishing derbies that bring numerous trucks pulling trailered fishing craft, and they fill the parking lots and W. Sequim Bay Road outside. The launch ramps are busy as boats slide into the water and later in the day are retrieved. When it’s crabbing time, boats leave with empty crab traps and return later filled with crab. Refrigerator trucks wait in the parking lots to take the fresh crab to markets and restaurants.

During the daytime, docks are open to the public, and walking the slips, it is possible to find all kinds of power and sailing vessels from many homeports, including Capt. Martin’s catamaran that takes visitors on local sightseeing trips. There is also a research hatchery floating dock. Large fishing boats from Alaska and Asia appear occasionally at the guest docks. One day a woman and a man pedaled around the marina in a small fold-up trimaran sailing craft. You just never know what you are going to see.

For boaters and non-boaters alike, Dockside Grill is a “main attraction.” Open for lunch and dinner, Wednesdays through Sundays, the grill offers great views of both the bay and the marina and seafood delicacies served with panache. A perfect place for that birthday celebration, anniversary party, or impress-your-guest dining event.

The John Wayne Marina, 2577 W. Sequim Bay Rd., is easily reached via W. Sequim Bay Road, a left turn off E. Washington St., or via the Whitefeather Way exit off the 101 Highway about a mile east of town. If you are passing through Sequim, don’t miss it. If you live here, summer’s here. Time for a picnic!

The 101st Indianapolis Motor Speedway 500-Mile Race was run today. No matter where I am, I cannot let the “Indy 500” pass without watching. I grew up two blocks from the racetrack in Speedway, Indiana, and I was influenced by the roar of the engines, the excitement of so many visitors during race month, and my numerous visits to the track and the race itself.

Childhood dreams

When I began in the fifth grade at Speedway Elementary filling notebooks with stories about imaginary women of action—including race drivers—I was inevitably inspired by my close connection to Indy. In the alley half a block from my house, there was a garage where mechanics worked on racecars. Most were “midgets,” smaller racing machines that performed on a regular basis at a half-mile oval across the street from the monster Indy track. But Kepler’s Garage also drew a few Indy cars. Kids from my neighborhood—several boys and me—would pass by that open-door garage and we would wander in to look closely at the race cars. The mechanics were patient with our youthful enthusiasm and would explain a thing or two before shooing us out the door in order to get their work done. We all imagined being race drivers one day (even me, a girl). Who wouldn’t? These were the celebrities of our world.

Speedway, Indiana, was a small town of 2,000 when I was
growing up. We were separate from Indianapolis, with a railroad track and a few feet dividing the city limits. I lived just off Main Street, which ended in one direction at 16th Street by the racetrack and the other end at 10th street by Allison Division of General Motors, which manufactured jet aircraft engines. On one side of Main Street were small commercial businesses—the A&P, a movie house, a corner grill, drugstores, beauty shops, etc. On the opposite side were industrial firms, Esterline-Angus, Union Carbide, and so on. These businesses were officially inside Speedway, which received tax proceeds from them, benefiting our community and school district.

Eleven months out of the year, Speedway was a quiet little town. We were suburban for sure (five miles from the central Indianapolis) and not much removed from rural Indiana farmlands. There wasn’t a lot to do except go out to eat, the movies, and church. Then May rolled around, the racetrack opened, and race drivers, many with their families, pulled in to town. The roar of the engines of cars practicing on the track could be heard at our house almost daily. Drivers’ sons and daughters entered our school system for the final month of the school year.

Young entrepreneur

By the time I was ten or eleven and entering my movie star craze stage of life, the Indy track became important to me in a new way. I had hobbies and I needed to make money to support my activities. The budding entrepreneur in me began to see the race as a way to make money.

Those 200,000 people who came on race day arrived in buses, cabs, and automobiles—mostly cars. The buses parked on Main Street in those days. Cabs dropped people off at the track. Cars had to park somewhere on their own. We had a big back yard, and I decided that with my parents’ permission, I wanted to fill our yard with cars on race day. Going price was 50 cents (now it’s probably $20). I made signs and stood at the end of our alley and directed cars to the gates of our back yard. A friend shoed the cars into the yard, and my father watched that they parked without blocking one another. That first year, I filled the back yard, the front yard, and the driveway with vehicles and made several bucks for myself.

Race visitors appreciated our friendliness and returned the following year. Some brought bedrolls and slept under a tree in our back yard. Two older men asked if they could rent a room because the ground was hard on their backs. Others asked, when it rained, if they could sleep in our basement. We agreed, and I slept on the living room couch for the next few years. My mother made hot breakfasts for our regular visitors from Baltimore, Maryland, and Atlanta, Illinois. I set the table and served the food as my mother took it from the stove. Everyone was happy with home-cooked food, instead of risking the “greasy spoon” down the street or the high-priced vendors at the racetrack. I netted about $50 that May, a lot of money for a child at that time.

The farmers from Illinois, about a dozen of them, came annually. By the third year, they had a spare ticket for me, and I was privileged to attend the actual race, sitting across from the finish line in Grandstand A, a giant wooden structure that has since been replaced with concrete and steel. My excitement as a child cannot be described, watching those race cars roar by in front of me, talking about all the drivers, and rooting for my favorites. One experience like that makes a lifelong fan of a young kid. I was from Speedway, and this was OUR race!

Influences of Indy

Exposure to the Indy made me different than I would have been without that month of excitement every May. I rubbed shoulders with celebrities and their families, rode around in a convertible with a race driver and his children, and once as a teenager was privileged to actually drive around the racetrack—courtesy of the local Optimist Club, of which my father was a member. I was seventeen and had just earned my driver’s license. I barely speeded up to 40 mph on the track and was terrified of the banked curves, but I made it around, and my father generously
let me have the opportunity to experience it.

I left Speedway at seventeen to go to college; however, I learned that you can take the girl out of Indy but not Indy out of the girl. I’ve always been a fan of beautiful and fast cars. My greatest thrill was having two Toyota Supras in the 1980s, definitely sporty, definitely fun to drive, and definitely satisfying to the Indy fan in me.

The Indy 500 was my big hometown adventure as a kid. It played into my desire to become a storyteller and write about the wondrous things I had experienced. Then, however, I was too close to that racing world, and my childhood novellas lacked perspective. Today, as I write novels, I can see Indy more clearly and my mind is working on it as part of a book. I now know what I want to say. So, lookout, Indy, I’m soon going to spin a tale about you!

[Top photo from my childhood, Main Street in Speedway with buses parked for the race. Remaining photos taken during a 1997 visit to Indianapolis, the track, and museum.]

For more information about the Indy 500 and Speedway, check out the following:

There are some days when the sky is blue, the temperature is perfect, and the breeze is gentle that it’s temping to take off for the day. Forget the lawn, the weeds, the shopping, and all those other household chores, and just enjoy a day-trip for pure fun.

Every summer, I take one of those wonderful days and head for Fort Flagler Historical State Park on Marrowstone Island, east of Port Townsend and the Olympic Peninsula. From Sequim it’s just about an hour’s drive through evergreens, rural areas, small communities, and water views. We load up the CR-V with sandwiches or chicken and goodies, and take the dogs. They love it. I bring along a baseball and a couple of gloves for a session of pitch and catch along the beach.

Military heritage

Like Fort Worden in Townsend and Fort Casey on Whidbey Island, Fort Flagler served as part of the “triangle of fire” and was built to protect the Puget Sound and Seattle from enemy warships or planes that could enter through the Straits of Juan de Fuca to attack. Built in the late 1890s, Fort Flagler was manned during World Wars I and II and the Korean War. Numerous gun emplacements are still intact and can be explored independently or through tours provided during summer months.

Many of the military barracks and other buildings surrounding a large manicured parade ground are still used today for summer rental retreats (look for Camp Hoskins and Camp Richmond). These sit on a large bluff overlooking the water. There is a gift shop, military museum and also a 1905 award-winning military hospital open for tours from Memorial Day through Labor Day (check dates and times before going). The Coast Guard maintains a station and simple lighthouse at the northernmost tip of Marrowstone Island; these are not open to the public but are approached via the park.

Fort Flagler park faces the Puget Sound and Whidbey Island to the east and the Olympic Peninsula, Port Townsend Bay, and Port Townsend to the west. Both these viewpoints have lengthy beaches for walking and picnicking. Most of the gun batteries are located on the north coastline, with one battery standing on the main park road (Flagler Campground Road). The state park, densely covered in tall evergreens, contains nearly 1,500 acres of marine campground and almost 2,000 feet of saltwater coastline.

Perfect spot for picnics

Most of my picnics have been on the beach to the east, just south of the Coast Guard enclosure, and below the bluff. There are wooden fences around several of the picnic tables that offer a windbreak and make enjoying a meal a lot easier, given proximity to wind and water. The long beach in that location is covered with bleached logs and other pieces of driftwood. It’s illegal to remove the driftwood, but visitors have fun playing with the pieces and building structures from them. From that beach there are particularly beautiful views of snow-covered Mt. Baker to the north.

The gift shop near the former barracks on the bluff above the beach is small but delightful, and volunteers who work there are very friendly. Many have served at Fort Flagler for several years and have amusing stories to share. (The military museum attached to the gift shop has a restroom, in case you are looking for one after your drive.)

On the west beach, there is a large RV area and a host spot, where you can stop to ask questions about the park. There is also an espresso shop (Beachcomber Café) with souvenirs, ice cream, and other goodies. You’ll find rest rooms nearby.

Fort Flagler offers many activities. There are two boat launches, five miles of hiking trails, two miles of beach trails, fishing, clam digging, and crabbing. Also kite flying, paragliding, and birding. On a sunny summer day, there is no better place to be.

Getting there

To reach Fort Flagler (10541 Flagler Rd, Nordland, WA 98358) from Sequim, you drive east on Highway 101, turn left on Highway 20 at Discovery Bay, drive northward to Anderson Lake Road, turn right and follow that road eastward to Highway 19. Turn left on 19 and enter the main part of Chimacum, turning right at an intersection onto Highway 116. You’ll cross a bridge to Indian Island (a fenced military reserve) and cross a small link of land onto the south end of Marrowstone Island. Follow 116 northward all the way into Fort Flagler Historical State Park. Entering the main section of the park, through a staffed gate, requires a day pass or an annual Discovery Pass.

Fort Flagler is such a large, beautiful, and peaceful state park that is well worth a visit. I have enjoyed being there so much that each spring I can’t wait for those sunny days—when Connie and I, along with the two poodles, can plan an escape to this lovely spot!

I’m sitting here in Sequim, Washington, editing my third novel in three years. I’ll be seventy-five this next week. How in the world did I get to this place at this time in my life?

My personal philosophy is that writers are born. It’s in the genes. It’s inherited from parents and grandparents—even if the only thing those forerunners did was assemble a grocery list or write names in the family Bible. Beyond the DNA, the writing gene is modified by life experiences. Since the only life experience I truly know—and halfway understand—is my own, I have to start there.

Being an ‘only’

I am an only child (I don’t say “was” because the impact of that reality never goes away). My parents were decently educated for the time; my mother had an eight-grade diploma, and my father finished the tenth grade. My mother became a secretary and a family business partner. My father worked as a timekeeper for Link-Belt for seventeen years, co-owned a family business with my mother, sold insurance and later did some real estate work. He studied law at night during the 1930s but failed the bar exam so never practiced law. Both my parents were deeply affected by the Great Depression; they were married in 1930 and saw their lives take very different courses than they had dreamed.

I was born in 1942, after the brick-veneer house was built and furnished in Speedway, Indiana (home of the Indy 500) the yard was fenced, and the mortgage was paid off. My parents then thought they were ready for me, so I was born. I was a challenge, probably more than they had realized. Thanks to the stresses created by an active toddler, they separated for three months when I was barely three. My mother took me by train in the summer of 1945 to Wenatchee, Washington, to see her family and give my father time to think. After numerous pleading letters, Mother and I went home. Their marriage was not made in Heaven but with a few relapses (and episodes of the Bickersons) they stayed the course for more than fifty years, until my mother died.

So I was this blonde, blue-eyed little girl living with a mother (I never called her anything but “Mother”) who wanted a feminine little girl and a father who wished he had a son. Somehow, I took to the boy part and pushed aside my dollhouses in favor of cowboy hats, western shirts, and cap pistols. There were lots of boys in the neighborhood and only one girl, who shortly moved away. So I played Army and touch football and built forts in the back yard. My dad took me to Indianapolis Indians baseball games and played pitch and catch with me. I had a bat, ball and glove.

When the insurance business came into their lives, I was seven. I was imaginative and creative and verbal and constantly active. I did everything on my own, of course, since I was an only. Sometimes I just needed to talk to my mother, but since the business was in our living room, she was working, and my father would say, “She’s busy now, go outside and play.”

Words and pictures

Thus, I played when I could, read lots of books, and went to movies at the movie house around the corner as soon as I was old enough. First the daytime Saturday matinees with the Western feature and then every program change during the week—adding up to at least seven different movies weekly. Words and pictures nurtured me. They provided an escape from my loneliness, but they also taught me about life beyond the three people (plus one cat indoors and one dog outdoors) that inhabited my principal world.

By the time I was ten, I could build meaningful sentences. My constant exposure to words and pictures took form, and stories began to emerge from my brain. By eleven, my emotions had become aroused, and I developed my first crush, on the swimming actress Esther Williams.

In the fifth grade, all of these influences came together as I bought spiral notebooks and started writing stories. My first efforts were like movie scripts in narrative form. My characters were drawn from the movies I had seen and the actors and actresses that I admired. I loved writing, because I could make up my world the way I thought it ought to be, instead of the way it really was.

Women ahead of their time

My principal characters were always women, and the heroines all looked and sounded to me like Esther Williams. But my women weren’t limited by culture and tradition. My heroines flew Navy jets in the Korean War; they raced horses in the Kentucky Derby; they roared through the water in hydroplane boats; and they competed in race cars. (This latter plot line was inspired by my living two blocks from the Indianapolis Motor Speedway track and having racecars and drivers as part of my life every year during May.)

I shared my first hand-written story with my classmates in Speedway Elementary School, and they all raved and asked for more. I continued writing and sharing. I still have a box of notebooks around here somewhere with all those very dramatic stories in which women anticipated their future opportunities by at least thirty years.

As I moved into adolescence, I had no perspective on where this playful, juvenile interest in writing would or could take me. It was fun and it just flowed out of me.